Saga of the Rapier's Blade II: Fencer's Misstep
by Rhys
Summary: COMPLETED The second book in the Saga of the Rapier's Blade. Fett, Xizor, and Guri are back. Breathing gets difficult, people are manipulated, someone gets mad, and things get very, very messy...
1. Chapter One: Now, fourteen years after t...

**DISCLAIMER: **_Star Wars_ (although I fervently wish otherwise) is not mine. Neither is (although it would be awesome beyond belief) Boba Fett. Nor are any of the other characters in this story, not even the one's I made up. If _Lucasfilm_ wants 'em, they can have 'em, with my blessings and cheers! (Besides, the girl's pretty annoying. At least if you're a bounty hunter.) This book ties in around and between (and upside down and alongside and inside out and counter clockwise and…shutting up) the _Bounty Hunter Wars Trilogy: The Mandalorian Armor_ (excellent book, best of them), _Slave Ship_, and _Hard Merchandise_. However, you'll more than get it even if you haven't read those. And I don't think it gives much if anything away that happened then, so if you plan to read them, this shouldn't spoil it.

_If you have not yet read Book One:_ Points of Dispute_, which is at I suggest you do so prior to reading_ _this, otherwise it will be exceptionally confusing and likely impossible to understand. Of course, considering I have yet to actually explain the connections between most of the important things going on, understanding really won't occur too much in_ this _segment, either. I'm afraid you'll have to wait for the next part for that… Enjoy._

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STAR WARS

The Saga of the Rapier's Blade:   
"The Fencer's Misstep" (book 2)

Chapter I:   
_Now, fourteen years after Return of the Jedi…_

A woman walked through an alley. It was a crummy, dirty alley, one of ill repute. Not the type of spot human woman usually walked alone, and certainly not without some serious firepower, much more serious than the small blaster holstered at her hip and the even tinier hold-out piston securely hidden in her sleeve. And even when they did, it was only the most brave—or perhaps foolhardy would be a better word—who went where this woman was going.

The woman wasn't worried. She casually opened the scorched, laser-stained durasteel door and stepped into the noisy, dark interior, not bothering to blink or sneeze at the noxious fumes lying thick and heavy in the smoke-ladded air. Coolly, the unruffled woman scanned the cantina's interior. Although the inhabitants were very good at it, she still had no trouble noticing their surreptitious glances and sizing-up of herself. Apparently, she either passed, or was below their notice. Either way, it mattered little to her so long as her work got done. The woman's cold blue eyes noticed the character she'd come to meet and continued her glance around the cantina as if she hadn't seen him. Casually, she sauntered over to a shadowy booth in a dark corner. She noticed the other still drinking by the bar as if he hadn't even noticed her enter. _Good_, she thought calculatingly, _he acts like he's been around the galaxy a few times. Much better than that last creature I met. _Had she been given to expressing emotions in places like this, and around people like this, she might have shuddered in remembrance.

Suddenly, she found herself no longer alone at the booth. She raised an eyebrow and regarded the new arrival, unperturbed and unintimidated. He leered at her across the table, revealing blackened teeth and a nose that had to have been broken more times than not.

"Hey, honey," he began, "you look lonesome."

"I'm not interested. I suggest you leave before I have to hurt you." She didn't bother to look at him.

"Oh, really, now? Why, honey, that ain't too hospitable. Dontcha wanna be a little nicer to me? I'm a real nice guy, trust me. A real nice guy, honey."

"I'm not. Leave. Now. You annoy me." She didn't bother to look at him as he started to slide across the booth towards her. "If you put your arm around me, I can assure you, you will live to regret it. Maybe. If I'm in a good mood."

"Good, I like 'em feisty," he lifted his arm to snug it around her shoulders.

Suddenly, in a blur of motion so fast that the security holocams couldn't have filmed it even if they'd still been functional, the man found himself lying half-conscious on the floor, moaning like a baby. The woman flicked her straight blond hair behind her ear, appearing as composed as if nothing had happened. She hadn't even moved from her seat; or if she had, it had been in that too-fast to be possible blur of motion where she'd wrenched his arm methodically from his socket, broken his nose, and tossed him to the floor in a heap.

And all without knocking her hair out of place.

The staring members of the cantina carefully and obviously turned away and busied themselves with their own business. They studiously ignored this dangerous woman and concentrated on their own affairs. Good, they were the smart type of cantina denizen. On Tatooine, the smart ones would have done the same. However, there were rarely a lot of smart people hanging out at the Mos Eisley Cantina and others of its ilk. There were myriads of worlds where that move would have gotten her more attention than it would have been worth, despite giving anyone else who'd had a similar idea very good reason to think of a different pursuit; one that didn't involve her.

After the cantina's members' attention was definitely elsewhere, another shape slid into the booth opposite her.

"Guri," he began, but she cut him off.

"No names, don't use names." Her voice was a carefully modulated whisper, one that he could barely hear, pitched high enough that it wouldn't carry; pitched high enough, in fact, that most species of human-size and larger creatures would be hard-pressed to hear it let alone produce it.

"Sorry." The other being grimaced, "I'm a little out of practice. After you-know-who went kablooie…" he caught the look in her eyes and paused a moment. "And then what with the New Republic taking over and all, well…"

"Get _in _practice. Five minutes ago."

"Uh…uh…yeah…right. Ma'am."

She glared at him. "Now. I assume the only reason that you even knew of this meeting, the only reason that you're even here, is that your intelligence resources are intact."

"Almost as good as they were before…uhm…" he hesitated, remembering her earlier reaction, "er, before the, uhm, yeah, uh, uh, yes, with, uhm, Black Sun, yeah." He jittered, nervously sweating.

"Good. I want to talk to Kuat of Kuat."

"He's dead—"

"So am I. I mean the new head of Kuat Drive Yards. You know who it is and so do I. However, there are others who do not." She gave him a suggestive look.

"Gotcha. Don't worry about it. I'll see what I can do. It's tough, you know, getting a dead woman who ain't even ever been actually real a chance to talk with such an important corporation head—"

"Do it. Quickly. I don't care if it's legal; better if it's not, but as I said, I don't care. But I am going to talk to Kuat of Kuat.

"For your sake, it had better be soon."

……………………

A woman sat in her office. It was a much better place, much fancier and more ornate. It was also much more sanitary, and the woman was in the process of doing something much more legal.

Kateel of Kuat twiddled her fingers as she spun slowly about in the wheeled chair. Black Sun's usurpers hadn't gotten the manufactured evidence to use against the Xixor loyalists and Boba Fett wasn't dead. So, Fett had tricked her. Big surprise there. The bounty hunter was as devious as a Kuat noble. And twice as good at what he did—in fact, he could probably beat a Bothan, Kateel thought wryly, at its own game. And now, this face out of forgotten memory made her recall those events. Despite all the things that Kateel had remembered, some of her past life had been erased beyond repair. If she could remember how she knew that blond woman, she would know better how to deal with her. As it was, she was behind the learning curve.

The woman's offer had tempted her, and her threat had unnerved her. However, she wasn't about to let the other know that. The chance to eliminate one of the three still-living creatures who had known and understood what was going on during her darkest hour, who could hurt her with that knowledge, and the most dangerous one of them, was appealing. And the warning about the other hunter left Kateel uneasy. The woman hadn't told her exactly who would be coming after her, but she'd left no room for doubt. "You may soon find yourself _hounded _by a certain _Biituian fen-hare_," the other had said.

Kateel knew she was talking about Bossk. After being scared off of his own ship, the _Hound's Tooth_, by Fett when she was in his company, she knew Bossk would be happy to kill her. Of course, if the woman told Bossk that Kateel had saved Boba Fett's life on Tatooine after he'd managed to blow himself out of the Sarlacc, the Trandoshan hunter would probably kill her for free, and happily. Bossk wasn't known for his control of his emotions the way Fett was. In fact, the Trandoshan was known for anything _but_. Like all members of his species, he had a horrible temper. He also had even less control than most of the rest of his species did. While she knew that he wasn't nearly her equal in intelligence or cunning, Bossk _was _a determined creature. He also held a grudge, and had made a career of stealing other sentient creatures away from where they wanted to be and taking them to where he could exchange them for credits. If he ever learned the woman's information, Kateel knew, he would never stop coming after her until one of them was dead. And unlike Boba Fett, Kateel did not have such faith in her own abilities of violence to believe that she could stop him easily should they meet.

Kateel shook her head. Now wasn't the time to think of things like that. Now she had to be logical, precise, calculating. It had been both easier and harder to be emotionless when she'd had her memory wiped. Then, she hadn't know anything about how to survive out in the galaxy, hadn't known anything she'd known before, had almost no information to calculate _with_. However, it was easier to be dispassionate about a life she didn't remember having lived than it was about a life that she had just reclaimed from the agony of ignorance. Suddenly, her comm beeped. She frowned. She had told her employees not to disturb her. If there was an emergency, even, they were supposed to come get her personally, not call her by comm. Ready to shoot off an angry retort, Kateel turned on the comm. Before she could say a word, however, another voice spoke.

"Neelah," it said, levelly, her own emotional reaction making it seem all the more detached. She gasped and sank into the chair. _Neelah_. It unlocked memories that she would rather not deal with now. After her memory had been brutally stripped by her own sister, Kodir, Kateel had been found nearly dead—dying—by Boba Fett aboard another bounty hunter, Ree Duptom's, ship. Thinking she was worth a lot, Fett had dumped her in Jabba's palace, where he could keep her alive without her—or anyone else—being aware of it. After that, after Jabba had been killed, Kateel—or Neelah, as she was known then—had been on her own, but alive. She had found the injured—dying actually—Boba Fett on the sands where he'd managed to explode out form the Sarlacc. She and Dengar, another bounty hunter, had nursed the nearly dead Fett back to health. Not for any altruistic means, mind you—Neelah knew he was a key to her past, and Dengar hoped to come out of it rich enough to quit bounty hunting. However, Dengar and Neelah both had nearly lost their life in the ensuing fiasco from Boba Fett's past. In the end, Neelah had managed to reclaim her memory, her name, gain a life back, and take control of Kuat Drive Yards. Dengar had escaped with his skin, she thought—she had paid him less than attentive interest after they parted company.

Boba Fett, however, was another story. The bounty hunter had somehow walked back out of the situation completely unharmed—in better shape, in fact, than he'd walked into it, having had more time to heal from the Sarlacc's long-lasting wounds. The only ones who had known her both as Neelah and later as Kateel were Boba Fett, Kodir of Kuhlvult, Dengar, and perhaps the Assembler, Balancesheet. Kodir was dead, and Dengar wasn't in the game or anything to be worried about. The Assembler could have figured out her name and heard where she was now, but the voice didn't have the tearing-sheet-metal quality to it that distinguished Balancesheet's.

Kateel breathed slowly in and out, forcing her pounding heart back under control. She even managed to unclench the nails of her right hand from her palm, little red marks showing where they has dug in sharply in her sudden shock.

"Fett," Kateel replied, her voice and expression an ugly mix somewhere between surprise, horror, and hatred.

She thought she detected a slightly amused quality in the bounty hunter's response, "glad you remember me."

"_Remember_," Kateel spat. "That isn't funny." Fett made no apology. "What do you want," she asked bitterly, "a trophy? As I recall, you had the chance to be a 'hero' before and turned it down over lack of 'monetary incitement' to go along with the name. Change your mind?"

"I know," he spoke quietly, coldly. The blood stilled for a moment in Kateel's veins.

"Know what?" she asked innocently. "You, apparently, know lots of things. Why don't you be more specific, Fett."

"Don't play games. You follow me."

A corner of Kateel's mouth twisted into a grimace. "I'll start applauding your brilliant powers of deduction when I think you're earned some of it. What do you want?"

"I'm warning you. Don't try and take her up on her offer. Bossk is nothing compared to me as you are well aware of." Kateel made a face, remembering all too well how Fett had manipulated Bossk both when she was with him and long before they'd met.

"Last I recall, he managed to talk you out of a whole chunk of credits, not to mention almost get you killed by Xixor with that thermal detonator of his."

Fett made no reply to the insult. He didn't need to; they both knew that he could take on and walk all over Bossk any day that he wanted to. The credits had just been a time saver; interrogation takes time. Kateel growled low in her throat.

"You don't scare me, bounty hunter." She glowered at the comm, "if you'll recall, I picked a blaster out of your belt and held it on you."

"Many creatures have pointed blasters at me. Some of them are still living. Some of those still resemble their former state. Some of those didn't even go through extensive surgery."

"You know what I'm talking about," she forced out past her thickening throat and anger.

"Do you?" Fett's reply was as fierce and emotionless as ever.

"Don't play with me, bounty hunter. Say what you want."

Fett replied calmly as ever, "you heard. You've also been warned. I suggest you listen to it. Besides , you owe me."

"I don't owe you _anything_, you misbegotten—I saved your life. That should pay off any debts, Fett, including saving me and dragging me along on your little quest for credits—"

"I have already spent too much time fencing with you. Either do as I say, or be prepared to face the consequences."

"Fett—!" she began, but he disconnected the comm. Seething, Kateel settled back in the chair and fumed.

And remembered…


	2. Chapter Two: Then, shortly before the ev...

Chapter II   
_Then, shortly before the events of A New Hope…_

Boba Fett half-dragged half-pushed the half-conscious merchandise onto his ship. It had put up a rather good fight, but had just about keeled over there at the end. It would have been a shame if it had died. The credits really weren't even worth it for a corpse. He shut the airlock and waited while the ship's systems pumped the water half-out, then stopped it. The liquid breather he'd carried for the merchandise had been damaged and it wouldn't do to asphyxiate it now. Fett dropped his burden unceremoniously beneath the water in the airlock and took several deep breaths, blinking away the black spots dancing before his vision. His oxygen supply had run out moments ago. He hadn't counted on the bounty getting a lucky shot and rupturing the small tank he carried in addition to the supply to his helmet. It had leaked, but slowly enough that he'd managed to get to the merchandise and get nearly back to the ship before it gave out entirely. He pulled a small airtight bag from on of his armor's pouches and filled it with water, then secured it around the creature's neck gills. That would be good enough for him to get to the cell that he kept creatures that didn't breathe oxygen in.

Something was odd about this merchandise , he thought. _Probably just the fact that I nearly asphyxiated myself. Not thinking quite clearly yet. Review things in a few minutes_. He pumped the rest of the water back into the oceans of Mon Calamari and slung the merchandise over his shoulder. He dumped the merchandise in the tank and removed the plastic bag over its head. After checking its vital signs and finding them all steady and high—enough—he shut the tank and returned to the cockpit. He powered up his engines the rest of the way—he'd had them on standby—and clicked from repulsor lifts over to full power. The _Slave_ leapt from hovering above the rocky seas into the atmosphere. He added in the last datum to the pre-calculation for the jump to hyperspace and flicked the lever. Around the viewport, the stars streaked out and blurred together into hyperspace.

Fett shook his head, annoyed that he hadn't moved quite as fast as normal. He hadn't thought he'd been without oxygen long enough to throw his reactions off like this, but apparently he'd misjudged. He breathed slowly, trying to clear his head. He also blinked rapidly. Blinked…? Fett's head snapped upright as he struggled to overcome the…whatever-it-was's affects. He sealed the cockpit and ventilated the air, snatching his helmet—the air inside had to be contaminated as much as the air outside it—and tossing it to the floor. He could hardly force his stinging eyes to open enough for him to see. He stumbled over to the bulkhead and fumbled with a hidden pressure catch. With a small hiss of air, a crack appeared in the smooth wall. He knocked the door aside and staggered in. He ripped his glove off and dropped it haphazardly to the floor. He awkwardly pulled the cover off of a small depression. The sophisticated analyzer slid out with agonizing slowness—he'd have to fix that…if he survived this poison long enough to do so… Fett could hardly think as he clumsily punched the buttons on the control panel of the small unit…

……………………

The merchandise smiled to itself, awake within its confining tank as it heard a thump from the direction of the cockpit like that of an armored body sliding to the floor…

……………………

Alone within his throne room, Prince Xixor stared out at the setting sun of Coruscant. Sometime soon, or perhaps already, the bounty hunter should have been dosed with the poison. He smiled coldly as he imagined the growing confusion Fett would feel, then the drowsiness, and then he would slip into sleep. A sleep that he would never wake up from. The Falleen's eyes narrowed in pleasure as he saw the death agony of Boba Fett…If only he could have figured out a way to get a recording…ah, well. Not even he could have everything…

……………………

The world came, slowly and painful, back to life. At first all he could see was a fuzzy blackness. His breath rasped painfully in his throat and he could hardly see. The concealing blackness slowly faded away to reveal the blurry confines of his ship, the clean, cold, sterile bulkheads of his _Slave_. He gasped painfully, struggling to a sitting position one handed. His other arm was restrained by still being in the toxic suppressant device. He lifted his free hand to his piercing head. It felt like someone had drilled a lightsaber inside his skull and triggered the blade. He ran his hand through his dark, sweaty hair.

Hair? He jerked back into alertness and scanned the room. No, it was all right. His helmet was lying against the doorframe where he'd dropped it…in his hurry to…do something…ah, he had it: to get to the device his hand was still in. He gave the screen a cursory glance. He'd check and see what kind of substance had been used later. Right now, knowing that he'd mostly recovered was good enough. He didn't know how long he'd been out and what might have happened during that time; his chrono was in the helmet on the other side of the room. He touched a button and the needles withdrew, enabling him to remove his hand. He had to use the bulkhead to steady himself against when he tried to stand and wavered when he got to his feet, which annoyed him. He slowly and carefully picked his way over to where the helmet was laying. He almost found himself landing on the floor of the ship when he bent over. He picked the helmet up and carefully wavered back to his feet. He almost fell again when he tried to put the helmet on, but kept his feet by hanging on the doorjamb. He looked around, noticing that his glove was also missing. He must still be suffering some effects of the poison. Either they'd wear off on their own, or he'd fix it with another dose of whatever antidote the computer had synthesized for him. He gently staggered back to where the battle glove was lying and bent to pick that up, too. He balanced himself on the wall this time, and managed to stand without pitching himself into it.

He checked the cockpit; luckily, the hyperspace trip he was on was a long one. He didn't think his reflexes were up to dealing with unaccustomed trouble at the moment. He should have about a standard time part before he had to return to the cockpit. Good; enough time to check on his merchandise and review the facts on whatever it was it had managed to dose him with. And figure out how it had managed that. His red-rimmed eyes narrowed behind the visor. That was something he would have to figure out. With dangerous and able killers gunning for you, it wasn't something you wanted to let slip by.

He climbed weakly down the ladder, refusing to allow himself to succumb to vertigo. He stumbled slightly when he stepped off the ladder, but recovered himself by grasping the rungs and leaning against them. He allowed himself one moment of leaning, helmeted head on the durasteel tubes, eyes shut and concentrating to still the room and stop the spinning. It was most aggravating. He must have ingested a fair amount of the toxin. If this did not end shortly, he would have to have the antitoxin device synthesize more antidote for him before he exited hyperspace. His dark eyes narrowed. The merchandise had some questions to answer. And if he did not _like _them—well, there was little specified about _conditions_ on this merchandise, so long as it were living and relatively well-maintained.

A low chime sounded in his helmet. Fett blinked beneath the black visor. That poison must have been more debilitating than he had thought at first. There were only a few minutes before the _Slave_ exited hyperspace. And at the speeds he was moving now, he would need extra time to return to the antitoxin and climb the ladder. Were he given to displays of emotion, he would have cursed or cried, or both. But Fett had been ten the last time he had cried, on the barren grounds of Geonosis. He had not since, and he would not again. Certainly not over something as paltry as this.

Fett walked slowly to the area where the hard merchandise was waiting in its cell. Summoning his durasteel strong will, he managed to hide any effect of the toxin from the merchandise, and the slowness of his walk and very palpable anger that was emanating from him were enough to make the already dangerous hunter look more threatening than he usually did.

The merchandise cowered, shock filling it's face, tentacled mouth gaping open in shock. It stared at him, wordlessly mouthing some exclamation of surprise. Through the slight distortion of the water, the utter and complete horror on its face made Boba Fett smile grimly beneath his helmet. He found that he could think faster, closer to his usual whip-like reactions.

"You failed," he said coldly, emotionlessly, to the silent question of the merchandise, pressing the intercom button that would transmit his words through the container. Fett trusted that his voice would be unshaken and strong despite the drugs; to think otherwise would have invited the option of it being so. Fett refused to doubt himself; that would open up a weakness. And weaknesses got you killed. While Fett did not fear death, he also was in no hurry to die. When he did, he would, but it would not be without a violent fight. And there was no sense in making it any easier for his numerous enemies. "And you are going to tell me how. Immediately."

……………………

Xixor's pale green lips curled into a feral smile, cold eyes narrowed in delight and anticipation. He wondered how long the news would take to reach him…

The Falleen heard the door behind him swish open almost soundlessly as Guri entered. His smile widened as he waited for her news.

"My lord."

Though she was a droid, and capable of controlling any "emotions" better than even he, Xixor noticed something in her voice.

"It failed."

"Yes, my lord. The bounty hunter lives."

Xixor's eyes narrowed to dark slits of hatred. After a moment, he hissed, "no matter. I planned for this. While he may have been able to avoid _that_…the second stage of the plan should work admirably.

"And Guri. I want to know _exactly how _he managed to survive this…as _soon _as possible."

"Right away, my lord," she replied calmly and bowed, leaving the Prince alone to his dark contemplation of the fate that was certain to befall his enemy shortly…

……………………

Boba Fett narrowed his eyes behind his helmet, glaring at the captive. Even through the black, opaque visor, his anger could be felt as much as seen by the merchandise. "Talk," he commanded in a voice like death itself.

The merchandise, encased within its water-filled prison, shook its head mutely. Fett hadn't had time to bandage its wounds, so it must be in some pain. The water had a few dark gray droplets—its blood—floating in it, but Fett calculated that it hadn't lost enough to be dangerous to its survival yet. And he was in no mood to be kind to it. Not at all.

Without saying another word, Fett touched a button on the container and the water temperature began to rise. The merchandise didn't notice at first, but then its optical organs shrunk in fear, a membrane nictitating quickly across them. The water temperature was soon beyond uncomfortable for the creature, but it still refused to speak. Fett would have sighed, had he been given to displays of emotion like that.

He touched another button and a mild electrical shock traveled through the container. The creature screamed and writhed in pain. Fett cut the current off. "Now. Talk."

"It…was a gas…that's all…I don't breath air so it didn't affect me…"

"And you dosed me with it how?"

"In…the airlock. I…had it on me. I'd…shot your air tank…so you'd suffocate…or at least…breathe it. But your ship…pumped it out. But it still…should have been…lethal…You're supposed…to be dead…now…"

"I got better." Fett spun on his heel and returned to the cockpit of the _Slave I,_ leaving the merchandise to its pain and injuries. And leaving himself to his dark calculations…

……………………

Boba Fett relaxed in the cockpit of the _Slave I_. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, checking to see that it was normal. He did the same with his pulse, laying the Mandalorian battle glove on the cockpit console next to the gauntlet that had to be removed to do so.

Fett had decided that he would do another short hyperspace hop before arriving at his destination with the merchandise for payment. He had emerged from hyperspace a few parsecs early and immediately spun the ship around and re-jumped. He wanted more time to assess his situation and return to nominal operating capacity. The fact that Fett was using such coldly precise logic—almost like a droid, completely without emotional attachment—in regard to his own life did not unnerve him. It was true.

Fett glanced at the small chrono. He did not need to, but his calculations would be more precise—by a few seconds—with it. He nodded slowly, once. Good. The affects of the toxin had worn off, at least enough that he was back to his traditional state of readiness. Breathing and pulse both normal. He lifted his gauntlet and started to replace it on his forearm. That was when he became aware of the slight, crawling shiver that ran over the flesh of his hand and seemed to tingle its way up his arm. He jammed the gauntlet on. Shoving his hand into the glove and twitching it on, Fett reached out with his other hand and slapped a button on the _Slave_'s console. He noticed the small alarm that he had disabled at the beginning of this mission, due to the high concentration of bacteria and small sea-born particles on Mon Cal that would have triggered a minor alert. The poison had distracted him and he had forgotten to reengage it. Yet he knew that it would have been flashing a priority message at him right now had he done so. He reached for a few more controls, intending to correct the problem on the air-quality monitor quickly.

Then everything went blank.

……………………

Prince Xixor glanced at a chrono set in the wall of his throne room. His reptilian lips curled into a slimy smile…


	3. Chapter Three: Now, fourteen years after

****

Chapter III

__

Now, fourteen years after Return of the Jedi…

Guri did not remember once being close to Dash Rendar. Guri did not remember once wishing to stop being the only Human Replica Droid programmed as an assassin. Guri did not remember once feeling grateful to Luke Skywalker. Guri did not remember betraying her master after his death. 

In fact, Guri did not remember feeling much of anything. Ever.

Though she had had much of her memory erased so that she would no longer know the violence she had done, her hardwired, core-programming had remained—hidden, even from the experts she had gotten to purge her mind. 

And some things were just so hardwired that you couldn't even think of getting rid of them. 

Like reflexes. Reflexes and skills that had stood her in good stead many times before. And today. She tightened the pressure on the creature's spine and it screamed shrilly…

Or codes. Certain codes had been burned into her cortex so far that she was stuck with them forever. Unless she wanted to completely remove her neural cortex and replace it and be nothing more than the same body with a different brain, completely blank, those codes were permanent. And so were their orders. And when a code had been whispered to her, deep in the dank, dark levels of a small, scummy little planet, it had…_started things_. Begun a slow, undetectable looping through her neural circuitry. And when it was _done_…

Guri had belonged to Black Sun once more.

She was now more emotionless than she had been built, more _cruel_ than ever. She did not even bother to _pretend _ to have emotions out in public. Nor in private. Not unless her circumstances or mission dictated it. And right now, they _didn't_. 

She didn't need to show emotions to break the creature she was interrogating now. In fact, appearing absolutely emotionless was better than any show of anger or rage could be in unnerving the creature in her grasp. Not many understood this, but it was true nonetheless. 

Fett had understood. 

He had understood very well. Human though he was, the bounty hunter had done a better job at distancing himself from whatever few emotions he felt, and of eradicating more emotion from whatever organ functioned as his heart, using nothing but the razor-sharp will he possessed than many droids did using technology and procedures devised specifically for that purpose. 

Yes, Fett had known very well.

Fett…


	4. Chapter Four: Then, shortly before the e...

Chapter IV   
_Then, shortly before the events of A New Hope…_

The water-breathing creature, known now as the thief Sòon Mit'alay, grinned within the _Slave I_'s holding cage as it slowly counted to itself. The merchandise raised its mouth and hearing organs above the level of the water just before the metallic thump echoed through the confines of the ship. The creature known as Mit'alay was willing to bet—had bet, in fact, his life, on it—was willing to bet that he'd be getting double the pay already promised him for killing Fett if he brought him back alive and subdued—in his own holding cages and ship, no less. His employer would like that. He could probably talk even more than double out of him. He would have to work on that…

……………………….

Fett forced his eyes open. He tried to rise only to find that he could not. Forcing, as if against some invisible hold, he managed to move his eyes, slowly and jerkily dragging his unfocused gaze around the area he lay motionless in. He realized that he was lying, face down, on the deckplates of the _Slave I _at the foot of the ladder to his cockpit. He had apparently fallen when he blacked out. Was his spine broken? That would explain the immobility of his limbs. But he had not landed on his back—a lucky thing; the sharper edges of his arsenal would have almost certainly shattered his vertebrae…but he did not usually wear them when within his ship. He was lying helmet-down; perhaps his neck was broken.

Fett suddenly felt himself stand, and noted a flash of pain in his left arm. Broken when he landed on it in the fall. Yet…he had not chosen to rise, not done so of his own power—nor to walk, unsteadily and jerkily, to the holding area, but that was what he was doing… Then he noted the gurgling voice calling to him form the cages.

_Nerve toxin,_ he thought grimly_. Like the Mandalorian command darts in my gauntlets. But not them._ Fett had once had the…opportunity to experience, first hand, what it was like to be drugged with the darts he carried. An attempt at capturing the misbegotten Solo with them had backfired when a new party, Calrissian, had suddenly taken an interest in the man and saved him. The two had struck Fett with his own dart, commanded him to disarm, and sent him off on his ship.

Fett had taken precautions against such ambushes in the future—and not just by watching any creature nearby for an attack in stead of just the quarry's allies. No; he had taken precautions against the toxin itself…

Boba Fett bent his will towards the task. Even if he hadn't been—nearly—helpless under the drug, he would have ignored the sweat that started to drip down his face and pool in the armor.

Fett found himself stopping in front of the merchandise and cycling the cell open. He reached in for the creature but it spoke, stopping him:

"Don't." And he didn't. A watery, bubble-filled chuckle. "Now, Boba Fett, _you_ are under _my _control. Find me a water-breather." Another chuckle; it rubbed its flippery hands together and an expression that could be called sadistic spread across its face. Fett, under the drug's control and the merchandise's, did as he was ordered. The creature reached for the breather but Fett's durasteel grip on it did not loosen. He could not _choose_ to hold it, but neither could he choose to let it go, so he was holding it in his customary relentless grip.

"Let go," the merchandise glared at him. Fett did so—he had to—and the merchandise had to dive to the floor of the hold to catch it. Fett might have smiled at that. However it wasn't the nerve toxin that prevented him.

The creature secured the water breather on its face and picked up the water container. "To the cockpit," it ordered in a watery voice. Fett turned and, without either of them speaking another word, stalked in the same rough, jerky manner, to the ladder. His disjointed, weaving process up it was something that he doubted he would be able to duplicate when undrugged. The creature scrambled after him, but as Fett stopped as soon as stepping off the ladder it had to shout for him to move before it could join him.

But Fett was ready. And the indefinite command—"_move_"—was all the opportunity he needed. Slashing out and back with a gauntleted arm, Fett caught the merchandise with a harsh blow to its throat. It gagged and stumbled backwards.

But there was nowhere for it to stumble _to_.

The blow had been a sorry one, at a bad angle, but it had served its purpose nonetheless. The merchandise let out a squawk and tried to shout something, flailing its arms wildly. Used to living in an aquatic environment, it instinctively tried to stop its fall by swimming through the air instead of bracing and rolling for the imminent impact with the floor of the ship. That would probably have saved it from death, or even from sever injuries, unless it landed at a bad angle. Fett had fallen down that length many times, and been practically unscathed for most of them.

Pulse, breathing, blinking, and other involuntary functions had not been impaired by the toxin, Fett had noticed. Sweating was another function that one did not actively control. And sweating occurred from exertion—like trying to fight against a nerve toxin. And sweating would move the toxin through his bloodstream faster. Fett had calculated the toxin's effectiveness, and found that it had not been as complete as the one he used on his quarries. Nor had he likely ingested a large amount of it, having worn his helmet and filters for most of the time, discounting that which had been spent unconscious earlier. Thus, it had not taken as much time or effort for enough of it to be diluted and excreted as his own would have.

Fett forced his eyes over to the control board of the _Slave_. He would be emerging from hyperspace soon and he needed to check on the merchandise. It might be alive, but the crunch and wet sound to the _thump_ it had made when it impacted on the floor of his ship made that unlikely. He also did not want to drop out of hyperspace when he was unable to react to a situation. He forced himself to walk over to his cockpit chair, stiff-legged and wavering. He collapsed into it just before the trembling started. He managed to breath shallowly, mostly from air already in his helmet and filtered by it as it wore off, then forced his body to still. He spoke then, to the ship. There were only a few things in the _Slave I_ that had been keyed to voice control. The command could be issued by voice, by uplink from his armor, or from the controls in the cockpit. He had anticipated that if he needed to use it, the situation would be grave.

After his command, he stopped breathing, holding his lungs empty. The _Slave I_ then vented all air in the main hold and cockpit. If there was anyone still living in the holding area, they stood a good chance of being asphyxiated unless they could hold their breath. After what this merchandise had managed, Fett would not have been concerned if the wind that resulted from the command tore the breather away from its respiratory organs. Fett would rather it died if it had not already. Saved him the trouble of eliminating it. A breeze blew past Fett and he hung onto the arms of the pilot chair as all the air in the ship was sucked out.

Just as black was beginning to steal his vision, air returned to the cockpit. Slowly, the rest of the ship received it as well—filtered now, through special modifications to the life support systems of his _Slave I_. He began breathing again; clean, safe air, unpolluted by the merchandise. He also flipped the air quality monitors back on. He determined to do something to eliminate the laxity in their operations that had resulted in this difficulty.

Behind the dark, **T**-shaped visor, Fett's razor-sharp mind clicked away on the issue. This had been no "merchandise" he had gone after. The creature lying in his ship had been sent to kill him. _Sent by Black Sun. _

Xixor.


	5. Chapter Five: Now, fourteen years after

****

Chapter V

__

Now, fourteen years after the events of Return of the Jedi…

Corellia was off-limits for Guri now. Something was going on there, something with the Solos, and she wasn't about to get involved. So she went for what was the better option anyway. She would use the secret headquarters of her master. The ones that only he and she had known existed. There had not even been any guards—only droids. And if they left an exact radius, or if they had a restraining bolt put on them, or if any number of circumstances occurred, they would first wipe all memory systems and then self destruct. It was still secret. Guri knew that as a fact. 

If it had been discovered, her built in connections would have informed her. 

Not to mention the public outcry at finding such a place in its location…

Guri smiled coldly. If they knew where Xixor's hideout was…even the Emperor had not known about it. Well. Perhaps _he_ had, but Vader certainly hadn't. But the Emperor had not been known for sharing his secrets, and he was dead now so the information was safe. Furthermore, both Vader and his master were out of the way and could not interfere any more. The only bad thing about Vader's death was that now Guri could not kill him to avenge her master on his most hated enemy and his killer.

So she would simply have to make do with the second best—or worst. He had not killed her master, but only because Vader had gotten around to it sooner. And he had been quite a thorn for a time. And he knew far, far too much about Black Sun. And he had made things much harder for _her _and her plans many times—intentionally or not; it was irrelevant. 

So Boba Fett would have to die.

Guri directed her ship, the _Falleen_ ("misregistered" as the _Fallen_) , down towards the landing bay designated to her by Coruscant Control. Then she flipped a switch that effectively cloaked her ship, spun it through a tight barrel roll and spun into a sharp turn between tall, windowless buildings with only centimeters of clearance on either side, piloting at a breakneck speed that few, if any, living pilots could match in such tight corners. Her cold, calculating blue eyes scanned efficiently as she whipped through the streets at a deadly pace. Luckily, no landspeeders came down this street often. They would have been destroyed. Guri could not risk slowing, however, or the planet's scanners would notice something amiss. Sending one short transmission with her comm gear, the wall irised open in front of her. Her ship could barely fit, and she ended up brushing one of her scanners out of alignment with the breeze of her passage. She would have to recalibrate that. 

Slowing the ship only slightly, Guri piloted down the winding, lightless tunnel. The path had been programmed into her memory, allowing her to take it at an extreme speed. No one could have matched it safely. Except perhaps for Fett. He had both the piloting skills, the ship, and the foolish confidence to risk it. She felt no remorse when contemplating his death. But she did feel a slight aversion, similar to that of her master's, when thinking of such an event. She remembered what he had once said, musing to himself on the subject. _The galaxy would be a kinder, gentler place without Boba Fett in it. What a disgusting concept_. But that was too bad. He would still have to die. It would be difficult.

Finally, Guri would get a challenge. She had not had one in a long time, not of her more _brutal_ skills. She was looking forwards to it. 

The coldly beautiful droid's blood red lips curled into a wider smile, like a deadly predator watching her prey, stalking it…stalking it…then pouncing…


	6. Chapter Six: Then, shortly before the ev...

Chapter VI   
_Then, shortly before the events of A New Hope_…

The steamy air was colored faintly green from the dim lighting, plants, and scents permeating the cool room. The warm waters hardly made any noise as they gently lapped the mossy edges of their boundaries. The scents lay heavy in the air, tropical, exotic; it was a location befitting a suggestive location or romantic holodrama, or some undiscovered, dangerously exciting and erotic far-flung world.

While Coruscant could easily be called dangerous, undiscovered it was not. Yet this existed here in the heart of this mechanical metropolis, crowded with a mind-boggling number of people and filled to bursting with buildings, vermin—of many types—and most importantly, _power_.

And there were few more powerful than the Dark Prince of Black Sun. Xixor's reptilian lips curled into a small smile, his scaly head the only part of his body that could be seen above the balmy water he was immersed in. He debated a moment about dismissing the two female assistants and meditating instead in the peaceful surroundings, but decided not too. Things were not very relaxing now, and he wanted a more…_active_ way to relieve his tension than mediation at the moment.

When Guri entered, the only reason he didn't have the beautiful, red-haired, blue-skinned, tattooed humanoid sitting a hand's-reach away on the side of the pool leave was because Guri might merely have been asking if he required her…_assistance_ as well. That was also why he didn't simply order the droid out before she interrupted his relaxation. That, and the fact that she was an expensive and worthy piece of valuable machinery that did her jobs wonderfully. But when he heard the words that came out of her mouth, he was not nearly as pleased with her…

The half-lidded reptilian eyes narrowed coldly as Xixor's expression twisted from one of pleasure to a much uglier one. He ignored the anxiety the two females displayed. He could always have them eliminated if they became a problem. He could have _any _problem eliminated.

Up to and including one little bounty hunter.

Even if he had to do it himself.

Cold eyes flashed to Guri at his side. "Have her taken. Now. And then I want Fett dealt with. Utterly destroyed. I want his foolish reputation for survival forever shattered. I _want him dead_."

……………………………………

Shavlin Frrecóusé was a tall, thin human, immaculate in manner and in dress. Calm, cool, unruffled always, he prided himself on his composure. Many things surprised him, but it was a point of honor with him that he never showed it, not even to his own most private and trusted companions. However, his jaw dropped, his knees became rubbery, and he nearly found himself on the floor. He clutched his chest with one hand, the doorframe with the other, balancing himself, teetering. He stared into his daughter's room.

And out of it, through the gaping hole in the wall, the smoke filled room, the flames that licked at the little girl-furnishing, burning dolls and clothes with the same emotionless ferocity as it ate the small, frilly furniture Larrallna had loved so. But the sight of the room wasn't what threatened to still his heart, to knock him from his feet. Nothing that he saw there was, really. Gaping holes, flames, smoke, destruction of his darling child's prized possessions, these he might be outraged at, but not nearly startled into death. No, it was nothing that he saw. Rather, it was what he _didn't _see that scared him so.

His daughter.

She wasn't anywhere. And there was that gaping hole in the wall…

And she wasn't there.

And the hole…

Wasn't there…

The gaping…

His daughter…

Where…

Not…

His daughter…

Not there…

Not…

……………………………….

The _Slave I_'s comings and going usually attracted a lot of attention on scummy planets, less on cesspools like Tatooine or Nar Shadda, but often on such elegant, respectable planets as he was heading to now, it was noticed with…_disdain_, and then ignored. This was, thus, an unusual circumstance. Especially because there wasn't anyone with a large price on their heads currently residing on the corporate headquarters of Frrecóusé Inc. Good, a challenge, perhaps. Of course, the job in itself would be a challenge, he was sure. Black Sun was sure to have something to do with whatever it would be; at the least, they should be watching closely. It would be an interesting test to see how well he could escape notice by such a large—and very good—intelligence network like they had. All Fett knew about the job so far was that Frrecóusé Inc. had contacted him to come here and discuss a job in his range of expertise.

His own intelligence sources had some trouble with the Frrecóusé security network, and all that they'd managed to determine thus far was that there was some kind of disturbance at the Frrecóusé mansion, and that there were rumors of Black Sun being involved. However, considering the state of things between the two, it was likely that they were nothing more than rumors. Still, his contacts here would have to start doing a little better, or at least figure out how to get more information to him shortly if he were to take this job.

There was two guards waiting by a speeder. No one else was even in sight. His helmet's sensor's could detect life forms nearby, he could even hear them and see infrared signatures. However, none of them seemed to pay him more than a cursory moment of fear. They also didn't regard him with the derision so common to the wealthy who thought—until they actually _were _merchandise—that they were above bounty hunters and their ilk. The two guards seemed respectful, too, however that was nothing unordinary. Guards could either be fearful, respectful, or contemptuous towards him, he had found over the years. That made no difference, however the reaction a few klicks north of the spaceport was. Two children were out in the yard as he passed by with an older woman; mother, probably, or some type of relation. They watched him fearfully, but the woman made no move to snatch the children back or step between him and them. He knew he was wrong about her reaction. There wasn't any relief in there. There wouldn't be. Fett blinked beneath his visor, then turned his attention to the nearing building. More like a fortress, it was a cross between a military base and a palace. There was smoke coming from the east of it, however. Fett scanned the image into his helmet's memory, in case he wanted to review it later. He adjusted the blaster rifle he cradled in his arms, ignoring the slight twinge of not-quite-pain from his left, recently broken and bound in a compression bandage and bacta patch beneath his armor.

Fett stepped ahead of the two guards. They made no move to stop him. He paused in front of the transparisteel door, however, and let them precede him into the room as a precaution. They looked nervous, dejected, and surly, but they didn't seem to be expecting anything. If there was a trap, those two didn't know about it.

Few things could surprise him. Even fewer could make him act noticeably surprised. The sight inside was one he'd seen over a hundred times before in his long career. However, Fett started slightly and paused on the threshold. The pause was brief, and the man sitting in the chair did not notice it. But Fett was shocked. While he had met with Frrecóusé only once before, and then for a short time, he knew some things about the man. He knew enough to know that something was very wrong with him. The normally immaculate, meticulous man was slouched dejectedly and…yes, and drunkenly in his chair. His clothes were covered in soot, in complete disarray, and tattered. His expression was one of extreme pain and numbness. There were marks in the soot on his face where tears had run. Frrecóusé blinked and pulled himself semi-upright when Fett entered. He also noticeably sobered up, in a hurry.

"Boba Fett," the man's voice, rather than being a carefully cultivated sonnet, was hoarse and grating, as if he had to force the words out through a tight and scratched throat.

Fett nodded. "Frrecóusé. I received the communication."

"Thank Marla…Fett, I need you to save someone for me."

Hidden beneath his visor, Fett's eyebrows raised. Again, thrown off balance. He would have thought, from the man's expression, that he wanted someone murdered viciously. "Save them?" Fett asked emotionlessly.

"She's been kidnapped…my daughter…" Frrecóusé's voice trailed off. He visibly made an effort to pull himself together, stifling tears in his eyes. After a moment or two, he continued: "She's been kidnapped. Larrallna."

Ah-_ha_. Fett had it figured out now. Larrallna Frrecóusé was the child Xixor had wanted him to locate and capture. Fett had refused, so obviously Xixor had decided that he'd get someone else to do the job. Fett nodded once. "How much?"

Frrecóusé looked up at him then, for the first time since he'd entered. "There is…something else you might want to know."

Fett waited calmly for the man to continue.

"The job…it was…well…" he motioned for one of the guards. "He'll take you to the…the room. You can look things over for yourself before you…before you agree to a price." The man's dreary gaze sharpened, "but there will be a price, Boba Fett, there _must _be."

"Suit yourself." Fett shrugged and motioned for the guard to precede him down the corridors…

…………………………..

Boba Fett rose from his crouch when he heard the footsteps approaching. He scanned the dust and microscopic fragments on his gloved fingers with the scanner in his helmet. He brushed some of them into a small vial and tucked that inside one of his armor's many pouches. He already had a good idea of what had been used—and by whom—but better to have the evidence and make certain later. Working off a hypothesis when you didn't absolutely have to was one of the stupider stunts you could pull. He scanned the remains of the child's bedroom once more, then turned to face the thin, distraught figure in the doorway.

Frrecóusé fidgeted but didn't say anything as he waited for the bounty hunter to complete his inspection of the room. The fidgeting wasn't a good sign, but at least the man still had the presence of mind to be patient.

"Suspicions?" Fett asked calmly.

For a moment, the company head seemed to wrestle with a decision, but then spoke in a burst of air: "Black Sun."

Fett nodded. That's what he'd figured out, but he had wanted to see if Frrecóusé might know of someone else who could be gunning for them. He waited to see if the other would continue.

"They sent someone…earlier…threatened us, told us not to go into their sectors of space—how does anyone like…_that_…'own' space? No right…" Fett knew that 'rights' mattered little to Black Sun and their ilk. "None at all…but never…never would have imagined…_this_…" The man was on the verge of having a break down. Best to conclude his business before that happened, while the other was still rational and thinking. Also best to secure a price before the man's greed kicked back in. The shock and horror would subside soon and—just like with the Hutts—he'd prefer a lower price. Probably not negotiate hard, anyway. The fool 'loved' the brat. Bad business, that. Of course, Fett normally would have left as soon as he heard it involved a child, but Xixor needed to be sent a warning not to try anything again, or he would. And the brat would be less likely to do that stupid childish "shut down" if it knew it was being taken to its father and away from its first kidnappers by the second…

"The exchange?" Fett asked, looking around the room again for specific signs of _who_, specifically, had done the dirty work. There were signs that you could find if you looked hard enough. People had "personal preferences" in their methods, and sometimes specific styles of work that their peers could recognize and either respect or scoff at.

"Just bring her here…we'll have the guards and things so that Black Sun can't get through…" Fett wasn't as confident as the other, but he stood less to loose, so it should be good enough. "I can give you specific coordinates later…after we get things…worked out…" his voice faded to a whisper and died away.

Fett nodded. That was their problem, not his. He named a sum. The man again surprised him when he failed to show any reaction, either surprise or incredulity. The guards' reactions, though, more than made up for their master's numbness. Both were scraping their jaws off the floor and one actually had to bend down and pick up the gun he'd dropped.

"Fine. Please…quickly. As quickly as possible." He looked at Fett with tear filled eyes. "I have to have her back…alive…all right…please…"

Fett just nodded, unmoved by Frrecóusé's emotion. "I'll contact you."

Boba Fett walked out of the palace and onto his ship, the _Slave I_. He made a quick check of systems, but lifted off fast rather than wait on a planet where Black Sun could notice him instead of making a thorough one.

He later cursed himself as a fool for not doing so…


	7. Chapter Seven: Now, fourteen years after...

****

Chapter VII

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Now, fourteen years after the events of Return of the Jedi…

Boba Fett was almost invisible in the darkness. His menacing presence usually attracted the fearful attention of anyone in the vicinity. A useful weapon, and one that he employed often, his reputation was. Occasionally, however, it was best to pass unnoticed. And Fett had a talent for _that _as _well_…

The tattered cloth that was serving as the only disguise over his armor could not hide him from anything but the most preoccupied of glances. But that was not what was keeping him unnoticed. Though he kept to ill-used passageways and dark alleys, Fett was fairly certain that, if the situation arose, he could have snuck across the grand square of Coruscant. He paused at the corner of the street, scanning carefully with the sensors in his battered Mandalorian helmet. This was one of the most dangerous parts of the endeavor. If he was seen now, it would be very bad indeed—but Boba Fett did not allow himself to think of "ifs" except for contingency planning. The "contingency plan" for this situation involved killing every possible witness and disappearing. 

It didn't matter. He shuffle/darted across the intersection undetected. Sliding along the side of the building like one of the pieces of semi-sentient refuse that inhabited the city-planet, Fett was all but invisible. He slid into the shadows provided by the scavenged husk of a wrecked speeder—sent to its doom by his machinations earlier that week to provide him the necessary cover—and bent to his task. None of the passerbys noticed as he pried up the slimy grating that covered the drain-hole in this street and, with a quick, surreptitious glance to check for watchers, slipped inside and pulled the grate back into place behind him. 

The muck he landed in rose up to his thighs. He ignored it; his armor had handled more toxic substances than Coruscant's refuse with less preparation. The plastic-like coating he spread over the Mandalorian armor served to prevent even the most potent of acids from eating through it, but the slight glint it gave off in light, as well as the almost inaudible crinkle when it was violently crumpled were drawbacks enough to keep it from being used often. It would have been of assistance some years back on Tatooine to protect better from the Sarlacc's digestive juices, but even he couldn't see all the possible outcomes to a situation. And who would have guessed that Solo could be possessed of so much blind luck?

But none of that crossed Fett's mind now. That was the past, and it stayed where it belonged. Learning from the mistakes of the past did not mean dwelling on it. Only fools and scholars, often one and the same, dwelled on the past—unless one was a Hutt, of course. Fett was a bounty hunter; the good ones had no need of regrets and remembrances. 

Not unless they concerned business. But if Fett remembered correctly—which he did—something from the past would likely be concerning his business very shortly. 

Relying on the infrared and ultraviolet translations of his helmet sensors, Fett make his way quickly and unwaveringly through the sludge and slime. His helmet filtered out the toxins in the air, and most of the smell. He ignored the rest just as he ignored the gunk. He'd walked through worse than this sewage, sometimes without even his armor to insulate him from it. 

After a little over a time part, Fett arrived at his destination. He carefully scanned the area with his armor's sensors before walking into it, then again engaged all the sophisticated equipment at his disposal to check the pitted, rusting access hatch. It looked no different from any of the other hatches scattered throughout Coruscant's sewer systems. "Looks" meant absolutely nothing. The very fact that there were no visibly detectable differences between this and any other, neither to his sharp eyesight nor to the advanced macrobinoculars within his helmet's visor, were alarm enough to cause the bounty hunter to patiently scan down to the deepest level of equipment he either wore or carried with him. Fett was worried. The only thing he had detected was a slight current of energy. That meant that either the creature in question didn't want to risk having anything stand out about this hatch and was willing to forgo advanced security systems on the door itself, or that the systems were so advanced that Fett's equipment couldn't detect them. After a moment's debate, Fett reached one muck-covered glove into a sealed pouch on his armor and extracted an extremely delicate sensor tool. The thick, cloying air filled with dampness was enough to ruin the tool, but he could repair it—or replace it—later. For now, it told him all he needed to know. Fett recognized the readout that ran across the tool's display; should he try to open the hatch, he would be flash-fired by a security device that seemed no more than a live current. The tool shorted out in his hand, sensors clogged and infected by the polluted air of the tunnel. He returned it to the pouch as he fed the readout into his helmet's computers. While his memory was nearly as infallible as that of his ship, he would still confirm what he already knew with it.

Fett scanned the area one last time to make certain that he left no signs of his presence, then continued slogging through the tunnels in the same direction. The muck began to get deeper, another sign that he was approaching the drop off; likewise, the low roar that his helmet had been detecting and muffling built to a louder, dull, echoing rumble. 

Fett flicked a switch inside his helmet as he slogged through the sewage; it was up to his chest, and steadily rising. He held his arms above it to enable him to move quicker—and to keep some of his weaponry accessible without the minute slowing of swinging it up through the thick semi-liquid. He had left most of his armaments behind; the cleaning and repair that would result from placing many of them in this environment for so long was not worth having them with him now, and some would have been ruined beyond repair by the toxic waste. He didn't bother to worry about being so moderately armed; if he encountered anything now that they would be necessary for, he would likely already be dead. He would have liked to have brought his jetpack along, however; for all the trouble it occasionally caused, it had proven more than helpful in numerous situations. But it was not on his back; the loss of the weight would also make the next part of his treck slightly easier, and the jetpack would have proven finicky with all the clogging mud that would gunk it up in these tunnels. He would simply do without. 

Abruptly, the ground beneath his booted feet dropped a quarter of a meter. Fett tilted his helmeted head upwards to keep the front edge of the ominous **T**-shaped visor just above most of the muck and continued forward, counting silently to himself. He flicked a switch in his helmet—switching his air supply over from the filtered outside air to the oxygen tube he carried with him—precisely one step before the squishy, caked up refuse that lined the floor of the tunnel vanished beneath his feet. Fett ducked his helmeted head down towards his chest and pulled his arms in as he plummeted through the falling sludge. He watched the small readout in the corner of his helmet carefully. Orienting his falling body based on his helmet's directional sensors and his own training, he turned and reached out an arm. He caught the sharp duracrete edge securely; the shock of his sudden halt almost enough to snap his arm. He turned with it, though, and avoided any injuries more serious than a few bruises. The bounty hunter ignored the sludge pouring over his helmeted head, swinging himself up onto the ledge by feel and instinct rather than his useless sight. 

He hauled himself into it and stepped back into the alcove, the waterfall of sewage pouring past him with a loud roaring sound that echoed strangely in the enclosed space. Fortunately, his helmet's audio systems had already been muted to protect his ears from the deafening noise—at their normal levels, the cacophony of sound would have deafened him as soon as he set foot within the tunnels if it were not for the automatic compensation units in them. 

He wiped some of the slime from his **T**-shaped visor with an equally muck-covered glove. It swabbed off the thickest of the muck, and his helmet's sensors, clogged as they were, would compensate for much of the remainder of the thick liquid; as well as the faceplate's innate properties and additional coatings that made it resistant to substances attempting to adhere to it. He removed an antiseptic absorbent cloth from a watertight belt pouch and carefully cleaned his boots and legs halfway to his knees. He also gathered the largest globes of slime form his armor everywhere else to avoid drips that would leave a trail. Unless his quarry had found an advanced type of sensor that would work with slime spraying into it from the waterfall a few inches away—which Fett doubted, staying appraised of all such devices—then she would never know that he had been here. He returned the rag to its pouch, closing it tightly, then flipped up a cover and punched a few buttons on the control panel strapped to his forearm. A slight hissing sound told him that the compression door was opening. He bent almost doubly and squeezed through, barely fitting despite having left his bulkier armaments behind him; the jetpack would never have fit through the small opening. He took out a clean cloth and wiped the doorframe clean quickly; leaving any muck along the edges would only make it obvious that there had been a visitor. Unless she entered within the next few standard time parts and detected the antiseptic, or saw a door edge cleaner than it should be, she would never know that anyone had been here, much less _who_. Fett could have placed some gunk around the door, nearly completely disguising his entry; however, if she knew that someone _had _entered and yet could barely detect—even with _her _capabilities—any physical signs of that entry, it would only be all too easy to guess at his identity. And while it was quite possible that she would know about his entry, there was an equal chance that she would _not_, and precautions were necessary. Crouched down, he half-walked, half-crawled through the small tunnel toward the exit; getting out would only prove difficult if she were entering at the same time as he was leaving; considering his de-armed state and the muck coating and muffling his sensors and slicking his boots and armor, and taking into account her own abilities, he would likely be dead relatively quickly if that happened. Fett wasn't fretting about it.

An LED light blinked, the job he had set his computer readout to analyzing having completed and been double-checked thoroughly, to alert him to it. Fett glanced at the readout in the bottom corner of his visor. It was true; the ship must be inside. 

Guri was here.

Sorry this was such a short chapter. It's just taken me so long—I have _no _time!—to put anything up that I decided to just put this much up and add to it later. I'm still working on it, but I'm really short on time now, so please be patient!


	8. Chapter Eight: Then, shortly before the ...

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Chapter VIII

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Then, shortly before the events of A New Hope…

Fett woke alert as ever shortly before he exited hyperspace. Nothing awoke him, although the ship's automatic _ping_ would have done so a few moments before the destination arrived—_Slave I _did not exit hyperspace on its own unless strictly programmed to do so, and that had been once in the last five years. It was equally uncommon for the bounty hunter to be awoken by the soft warning noise. He chose when to awake, and did so as easily as breathing.

He was on his way to Tatooine.

Not one of his favorite places in the galaxy to go, but that meant nothing. There was rarely anything of value on that world, but he had delivered some expensive merchandise, and received the appropriate compensation, for more than one powerful crimelord on that dusty desert-planet. Of course, right now, there was really only one of any power, although the Whippid seemed determined to make a go of it. She had lasted longer than most others, but Jabba's network reached deeper than the "Lady" knew. Deeper, perhaps, than Fett did. But then again, Fett's contacts within Jabba's people did likewise.

And Jabba's people had eyes within Black Sun.

While the Hutt was not officially aligned with the criminal empire, you did not have an operation that size without having close…_liaisons _with them, of one sort of another. Prince Xizor and Lord Jabba made a show of courting one another and doting with "friendship" and gifts, but their "friendly" rivalry existed only so long as Jabba proved both useful and effacing enough to stay on Black Sun's good side.

Right now, Xizor was on Fett's _bad_.

The bounty hunter landed the _Slave _in Bay 94 in Mos Eisley under cover of darkness. With Tatooine's—and especially Mos Eisley's—gossip circle, that meant nothing, but he did not care who knew he was there. "Secrecy" of one's comings and goings on Tatooine was a practical impossibility (though he had managed it on a few occasions) and rarely necessary. There were many reasons to come, the prime one being the Hutt himself and the bounties he offered. It was not uncommon for Jabba to request Fett to show up in person for a private contract, though usually holocommunications were adequate.

Walking alone through the back alleys of Mos Eisley was dangerous after dark. If the womp rats did not attack, the sentient predators would. Anything not welded-down was fair game, and if something was stupid enough to wander to them, all the better and easier to strip it of any sort of value. Even stormtroopers didn't want to travel the smaller streets in anything less than a full complement after nightfall; Tatooine's scavengers were not above stripping the Imperials as thoroughly as they did the lesser scum.

Not even the rodents would bother Fett.

That is not to say that he relaxed while walking there; he never relaxed outside his ship, and rarely there. "Relaxing" meant being careless, and being careless meant being dead. Everything dies, but Fett was in no hurry to do so. Still, he was not expecting any serious trouble. Even if there was someone on planet with both the skills, money, arsenal, anger, ambition, or gumption—pick any combination—to try for him, he had just arrived, and not even Tatooine's gossip net could work _that _fast. Any hit would come either near or within Jabba's enclave or on his return trip back to the _Slave_.

So when the first blast hit, he was caught as off-guard as was possible.

Well-used reflexes and over-eager shooting saved him. Whoever the sniper was, it was excited about the chance to kill him, and it had not taken the necessary time and precision with its aim. The laser blast grazed his helmet, scoring off some of the paint and leaving a slight scorch mark along it. Fett was already diving and rolling out of the line of fire, his own blaster flying from its holster to his hands as he fell. The first shot was followed almost immediately by a volley of others from different angles. Most of the shots came from above, and the doorway he had rolled into had enough of an overhang to block most of those. By tucking tightly against the wall of the small alcove, he maneuvered himself into decent cover.

He could not allow himself to be pinned down here, though. Noises along the small alleyway alerted him to the fact that not all of the shooters were above him. Fortunately, the alley he had been in was small and cramped, making hitting a target from above more difficult. Further, Tatooine houses rarely had windows and these were no exception. The only places the shooters could be were on the roofs—again, not exceptionally tall ones for the city, which preferred shorter ones to begin with—or from doors and adjoining streets, and there were few streets that led into this one, and fewer that were safely passable or unblocked. All of that helped shift the odds more into Fett's favor.

Fett's helmet sensors picked up the noise of creatures moving towards him down the street. Both good news and bad: his cover would be useless from a head-on assault, and they were surrounding him; however, their proximity would force the overhead shooters to take more time on aiming and eliminate most of them from the battle unless they wanted to risk shooting their compatriots, who had just become living shields for the hunter they were trying to kill. Above him, some of the would-be assassins seemed to be realizing this, because the amount of blaster fire decreased. Fett's 360-degree field of vision that his visor offered him showed one of the roof-toppers on the other side of the alley creeping along the grimy building to line up a shot straight into Fett's alcove. Without moving from his position, the bounty hunter calmly adjusted his blaster as the creature brought its own laser-rifle in line. A short burst of red settled things.

He was, however, still cornered. But the alcove he had ducked into was a doorway. Maybe…

…………………..

The beautiful blonde walked calmly through the dark hallway, not bothering to turn on any lights. Her optical sensors could operate perfectly well without assistance from the light globes that, dark now, dotted the long, lush hall in the palace of the Dark Prince. She taped in her code and paused while the numerous security measures assured themselves that the woman standing in front of them was indeed the human replica droid Guri, then entered the large and opulent bed chamber.

"My Lord," she spoke calmly.

Despite the late hour, Xizor was not asleep. Reptilian eyes flashing from the flimsiplast printouts in his hand to her, he removed enough attention from the selection of his next mistress—he was bored with his latest one, and was just about to order Guri to inform her that the affair was over and offer suitable gifts, when the droid continued speaking.

"You wished to be informed as soon as the ship arrived anywhere."

Instantly, all of Xizor's attention snapped to the matter at hand. "Where?"

"He is on Tatooine."

"Why?" Xizor hissed.

"Uncertain," Guri replied calmly, unfazed by her master's menacing attitude. "There are many number of reasons, from a transaction with Jabba or Lady Valarian or any other such personage there, or the location and capture of merchandise, or meetings with his own contacts there, or even non-business–related actions, though given his history, that is extremely unlikely." Guri was nothing if not thorough, and while Fett had never been known to engage in any pursuits other than those directly dealing with his profession, there were many things that could be bought or sold on Tatooine, and many creatures found those things prime reasons for frequenting the sandy planet.

"We have people in place?" Xizor asked. It was not a question.

"Of course, my lord," Guri replied just as coolly.

"Excellent." Xizor allowed himself a small smile. "Give the signal."

Guri nodded and exited the Dark Prince's room as silently as she had entered to do his bidding…

…………………..

Hodge "Sharp Eye" Trapperjump squirmed forward on the gently sloping roof. He couldn't believe his luck. First, his reputation as a crack shot sniper gets him a job with Black Sun—and nice, lucrative work it looked like, too—but then he gets the word that he's about to be shipped off to become an official assassin of the Organization. A chance to see the worlds, and get paid while doing it! Hodge had thought that life truly couldn't get any better (well, unless he got _really _lucky with one of Jabba's dancers, but he didn't think that was too likely to happen—until he upped his rep a lot). Then the word had come that Boba Fett was on planet, and that the Org was putting together a team to take him down, with a hefty price attached to his head, indeed. If he bagged _Fett_, there wouldn't be a dancing girl in the galaxy that wouldn't be willing to wait on him hand and foot, and that would just be the edge of the sandstorm! That was lucky enough, but now the hunter had chosen the doorway directly under Hodge's position for his cover!

Man, but _some_thing was with him, all right. Now, if Hodge could just edge out over the roof enough to lean down, he'd be able to take out Fett from above without the hunter even being able to see him coming until he swung down and fired. Even if the hunter could get off a quick shot, it would be a wild one, and Hodge would certainly have enough money to pay for _any_ sort of medical attention to get rid of a scar from a snapped shot—or maybe he'd just keep it. _I got this scar takin' down Boba Fett_…yeah…

Hodge grinned and leaned out a little farther. He should be getting a glimpse any minute now—yes, there was the edge of the door! _Excellent_. His grin was threatening to split his cheeks now. Holding his wild yell in check, Hodge swung over and squeezed off a shot. He started his euphoric cry, then realized something was wrong. Where there should have been a dead bounty hunter sliding to the sand, there was instead…nothing. Just a blaster scorch burned through the ratty door and the fried edge of a lock that had been picked a little too fast and a little too roughly.

Something cold and tight squeezed around Hodge's guts as he stared blankly at the empty alcove. _What the…?_ he had just enough time to wonder stupidly…

…………………..

Fett removed his hands from the human's mouth and throat and dropped the limp body quietly to the roof. He wiped the edge of the vibroblade on the creature's rough clothing and reholstered it. He had a feeling that there was no point in cleaning it any more right now. It would more than likely be seeing further use tonight. Keeping close to the roof, Fett crept along it towards the edge of the building. Scanning to see if anyone's attention was directed anywhere but into the street, he rose slowly and jumped. Dropping quickly into a crouch, he looked around again to see it his quiet landing had been noted by anyone. It hadn't. _Sloppy_, he noted calmly, and snuck over to the next potential sniper. He removed the vibroblade without so much as a hiss of metal on leather, and moved in. He kept it off to prevent the slight humming that an active vibroblade made which might give away his presence to the oblivious Rodian in front of him…

Fett cleaned the dripping, thick blue blood off of his blade on the once-white tunic of the pale-skinned, tattooed humanoid staring blankly up at him from the dusty roof. As of yet, no one had noticed him. His distraction below was just winding up; the blaster bolts engendered from the remote device he had left in the alcove, just in the edge of the doorway he had broken through, were largely un-aimed and had hit very few of the potential targets, and fewer of those were debilitating wounds. Nevertheless, it had sufficed to attract the necessary attention to allow him to creep the roofs unobserved while he cut down the odds a bit. They were not the worst he had ever faced, but there was the potential of one of these incompetents getting lucky with a wild shot, and it was better to decrease that possibility.

Having the full use of his left arm would have aided him in his endeavor, but he would cope with it. After all, if he had not been sloppy enough to allow it to snap in the first place, it would not have been wrapped in a compression bandage that would not allow it to either straighten entirely or to bend closed completely. It was an annoyance, but at least he still had as much use of it as he did. Hopefully the lack of full mobility would not be crucial in this battle. Either way, he would know within the next few minutes.

While most of Fett's attention was devoted to dealing with the situation he found himself in—both paying attention to his attackers as well as strategizing the best way to eliminate them—the back corner of his mind was busily working out precisely what had happened. There had not been enough time to get such an ambush set up—not unless someone knew he was heading to Tatooine before he arrived. He might have blamed Jabba, but the Hutt didn't know he was on-planet (or at least, he hadn't know he was coming; the crime lord's spies had likely long-since passed the information on). Fett wasn't here to see Jabba, or Lady Valerian, or any of the others who paid for his services that made Tatooine their home. No one had been aware of his impending arrival; that meant no one could have sold him out.

Which meant that for this ambush to be set up, someone off-planet had to know he was coming here. And since his trajectory entering hyperspace was never where he intended to end up—it cost fuel and time to change direction, but complicated jumps meant that his arrivals could not be guesstimated from the direction of his departures—that meant someone was tracking his ship.

__

Frrecóusé. Not the man, or even his company; they wanted Fett alive and working for them. But when he was meeting with Shavlin Frrecóusé, someone must have planted a bug on his ship. He had lifted off without making his customary security check to avoid detection from Black Sun. Now it was obvious that he had erred. That small misstep had become a glaring problem; so much for a furtive meeting with his contact and a quick departure, gone before Black Sun's agents could be mobilized. Before he could do what he came here for, he would have to clean up this mess—which was easier said than done.

But then, that was why Fett avoided unnecessary talk. He preferred to simply do.

To that end, the bounty hunter was now lying prone on one of Mos Eisley's sloping roofs, tucked against the side of the dome on the slim flat edge. The shadows helped to hide him, but he knew that once one of the mercenaries looked his way, he would be more than visible enough. He slowly edged his left arm along the plaster roof; he ought to have switched gauntlets, but he hadn't thought about it until now, and doing it now would be a liability. He straightened it as far as the compression bandage would allow, bearing his forceful will down on the pain to keep himself from blacking out. He sighted carefully, preparing to make the shot. His right hand hovered over the trigger mechanism. Once the thugs saw him, he would be exposed to their fire—and they could not all be as poor marksmen as the Empire's bulk-troops. Still, there was no other option. He would have to time this carefully…

Suddenly, bolts of red split the night. The mercenaries scattered, yelping with surprise at seeing the blasts come from the same level as they were on—rather than from the street, where they were sure they had pinned their target. The spun, directing their frantic fire at the source of the attack; their own beams crisscrossed the night, painting a web across the roof that cut everything on it to ribbons. Respecting—or perhaps fearing—his reputation, they kept shooting long after common sense would have told them that nothing living could remain there.

Fett watched calmly, then squeezed off a second shot. Another mercenary spun and slumped on the roof. The creature next to it turned in shock and opened his mouth to shout an alarm as it tried to turn its ponderous sniper rifle to face the other direction. Another blast of red hit it directly in its open orifice with surgical precision. It tumbled from the roof to land silently in the soft sands of the street below.

The bounty hunter scanned for his next target, and focused on the back of a twi'lek's head. Another short blast and it, too, slumped halfway off its perch. His next shot dropped a human through the throat, but the scum had been one of those idiots who forget the shoulder strap of their rifles the minute the start shooting. The gun tumbled from the creature's dead grasp, and the clatter across the roof before it finally slithered off to hit the sands caught the ear of the Devaronian in front of the corpse. Fett shot that one too, and it slumped, dead, but it had managed to turn halfway before he got it, and the random blast from its gun hit the side of a building just in front of two other snipers. They turned in shock, saw Fett, and raised the alarm before he could kill them both; the compression bandage around the broken arm was slowing his movements just enough.

Not bothering to waste energy on a curse, Fett rolled as the blaster fire streaked his way. At any rate, the ruse would not have lasted more than approximately two point seven more seconds, anyway; by then, they would have realized that they were shooting at nothing more than his blaster rifle, rigged with a remote mechanism that would squeeze the trigger on command. He had fired that gun at the same time he shot with his wrist laser, so the sound had seemed to be only one, and over the noise of their own weapons they would not have been able to detect the second discharge, and it had bought him time to secretly sniper a few of them.

He tumbled off the roof, rolling as he hit the sand. He was on his feet for only a split second before he launched himself across the alleyway; blaster fire roared as he came into sight, but he was gone around another corner before any of it could be aimed. He removed a small globe from a pouch hanging from his belt and counted, listening to the laser fire. A few of them were moving into better position, but the majority were still working on understanding what had happened and were firing largely out of instinct.

Fett waited a moment more, then lunged out of cover. He dove to the sands and laser bolts streaked harmlessly over his helmeted head; he lurched to his feet, feeling a blast crease his side but not penetrate his armor. There was a brilliant flash of light, then everything went dark…

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To be continued…

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And that the end of Part Two! I should have the third part starting up eventually, really I should! It's just, I'm working a lot this summer, getting ready for college, and we just moved, and there's a whole lot going on, and I promise I'll finish everything up here eventually, please be patient! Okay, I'm done now. Thanks!


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